A Fisherman of the Inland Sea: Stories Read Free Page B

hours’ drive,
     that’s all,” Bruce said, “but y’see most tourists want to keep on the beaten path. This is a bit more on the inside track.”
    “Bang-up shows,” said Bruce. “Nightly Corroborees.”
    “Hotel any better than this dump?” Jerry asked, andthey laughed. No hotel, they explained. “It’s like a safari, see—tents under the stars. Never rines,” said Bruce.
    “Marvelous food, though,” Bruce said. “Fresh kangaroo chops. Kangaroo hunts daily, see. Witchetty grubs along with the drinks
     before dinner. Roughing it in luxury, I’d call it; right, Bruce?”
    “Absolutely,” said Bruce.
    “Friendly, are they, these abos?” Jerry asked.
    “Oh, salt of the earth. Treat you like kings. Think white men are sort of gods, y’know,” Bruce said. Jerry nodded.
    So Jerry wrote down all the directions, and here they were driving and driving in the old station wagon that was all there
     was to rent in the small town they’d been at for the Corroboree, and by now you only knew the road was a road because it was
     perfectly straight forever. Jerry had been in a good humor at first. “This’ll be something to shove up that bastard Thiel’s
     ass,” he said. His friend Thiel was always going to places like Tibet and having wonderful adventures and showing videos of
     himself with yaks. Jerry had bought a very expensive camcorder for this trip, and now he said, “Going to shoot me some abos.
     Show that fucking Thiel and his musk-oxes!” But as the morning went on and the road went on and the desert went on—did they
     call it “the bush” because there was one little thorny bush once a mile or so?—he got hotter and hotter and redder and redder,
     just like the desert. And she began to feel depressed and like her mascara was caking.
    She was wondering if after another forty miles (four was her lucky number) she could say, “Maybe we ought to turn back?” for
     the first time, when he said, “There!”
    There was something ahead, all right.
    “There hasn’t been any sign,” she said, dubious. “They didn’t say anything about a hill, did they?”
    “Hell, that’s no hill, that’s a rock—what do they call it—some big fucking red rock—”
    “Ayers Rock?” She had read the Welcome to DownUnder flyer in the hotel in Adelaide while Jerry was at the plastics conference. “But that’s in the middle of Australia, isn’t
     it?”
    “So where the fuck do you think we are? In the middle of Australia! What do you think this is, fucking East Germany?” He was
     shouting, and he speeded up. The terribly straight road shot them straight at the hill, or rock, or whatever it was. It
wasn’t
Ayers Rock, she
knew
that, but there wasn’t any use irritating Jerry, especially when he started shouting.
    It was reddish, and shaped kind of like a huge VW bug, only lumpier; and there were certainly people all around it, and at
     first she was very glad to see them. Their utter isolation—they hadn’t seen another car or farm or anything for two hours—had
     scared her. Then as they got closer she thought the people looked rather funny. Funnier than the ones at the Corroboree even.
     “I guess they’re natives,” she said aloud.
    “What the shit did you expect, Frenchmen?” Jerry said, but he said it like a joke, and she laughed. But— “Oh! goodness!” she
     said involuntarily, getting her first clear sight of one of the natives.
    “Big fellows, huh,” he said. “Bushmen, they call ‘em.”
    That didn’t seem right, but she was still getting over the shock of seeing that tall, thin, black-and-white, weird person.
     It had been just standing looking at the car, only she couldn’t see its eyes. Heavy brows and thick, hairy eyebrows hid them.
     Black, ropy hair hung over half its face and stuck out from behind its ears.
    “Are they—are they painted?” she asked weakly.
    “They always paint ‘emselves up like that.” His contempt for her ignorance was reassuring.
    “They